


Harry Potter and the Devilish Baboon

by jellybeany



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Choose Your Own Adventure, Coming Out, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:01:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeany/pseuds/jellybeany
Summary: “How’s life in the Snorer Department?” asks Malfoy, flashing a wicked toothy smile. “Fancy a trip to Hell?”A choose your own adventure, pick a path story.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	1. Shit, is that the time?

**Author's Note:**

> Click on the link at the end to go to the next part of the story (instead of clicking 'Next Chapter').

Shit, is that the time? 

Harry doesn’t need to be a Seer to predict that today is not going to be a good day. 

He’s already slept through his alarm — he’s seventeen minutes late for work — and now he can’t find his robes. Robards is going to give him such a bollocking. It’s alright for Ron down in Games and Sports, his bosses don’t give a toss if he comes in at ten o’clock with evidence of pastries all down his front (and Ron has never _not_ got evidence of pastries all down his front). In the Auror Office, Harry’s excessively moustached and unpleasantly Vernon Dursley-esque boss has made it clear he’s on his final warning.

The hangover isn’t helping either. He’d been home alone last night and decided to try something stronger than usual to lift his spirits: _Percival Peabody’s Perversely Potent Port_. Mixed with vodka. And gin. Harry staggers into the bathroom, pulls out a vial of hangover cure from the cabinet, and downs it in one. The mirror tuts disapprovingly, but he’s used to it. 

Feeling marginally more like a human being and less like a bipedal slug wearing glasses, he realises he’s standing on his robes. He must have left them on the bathroom floor when he had a shower last night — they’re a bit wet. He pulls them on anyway.

To top it all off, he drops the last two eggs while making breakfast. The sunny yolks smile up at him patronisingly.

“Brilliant,” he mutters, “absolutely wonderful. I’ll just have dry toast then, shall I? Now I’m talking to myself, first sign of madness. Maybe I’ve lived alone for too— ah, fuck!” 

The tin canister emblazoned with the slogan _Save a broom, ride a Quidditch player!_ in which Harry keeps his coffee grounds is dreadfully, harrowingly empty. 

If he didn’t live alone, it wouldn’t be like this. There would be someone else to buy the coffee, or at least to remind him to buy more before he runs out. Someone to nag him about not leaving his robes on the bathroom floor, and not drinking enough alcohol to incapacitate a manticore. He should get a flatmate, he thinks. Or a partner. Or a house elf with good conversational skills. 

With the events of this Monday morning thus far reaffirming in Harry’s mind that life sucks, he chokes down a sad slice of dry toast and floos into work. As he brushes ash off his robes, he realises that they are inside out. 

He drags his feet across the threadbare maroon carpet, head already throbbing a little at the sound of thirty clacking typewriters. At least Robards isn’t yelling at him yet. As he weaves through the rows of desks, his boss opens his office door and leans out, red-faced and grimacing. He narrows his eyes at Harry, but retreats into his office without a word and slams the door shut.

Heaving a sigh of relief, but still dreading the day ahead, Harry reaches his desk in the far corner of the office, collapses into his chair and stares out of the window, resolutely ignoring the piles of paperwork and the fluttering, tweeting memos now circling his head. A golden-haired young witch comes bounding towards his desk.

“Good morning, Mr Potter! Did you know your window charm is still stuck?”

Yes, he does know, thank you Proudfoot. Patience Proudfoot, the bouncy, bubbly niece of one of the Senior Aurors, landed an internship as Robard’s personal assistant a few months ago. Nepotism at its finest, as Hermione would say. 

“Mister Head Auror Robards would like to see you in his office, he told me to tell you. Oh, but not now — at the end of the day. When you’ve filed all your paperwork, he says. Are you alright? You look a bit greasy. Anyway, I’ll let you get on with things. Your desk is getting a bit full, haha! Right, bye then!”

Harry nods at her until she leaves, bouncing away back to her desk at the front of the office. He thinks Patience Proudfoot was named so because she really tries his patience. He goes back to staring out of the window.

She’s right, it is stuck. When Harry joined the department a few years ago, the window had been charmed to show a meadow with rolling hills, wildflowers, and meandering horses. Now the wind doesn’t blow; the grass is as still and stagnant as a Muggle photograph. The flowers have stopped growing.

It’s one job of many on a long, long list of things he can’t be bothered to sort out. The biting pencil sharpener, the sticky filing cabinet drawer, or the piles of papers on his desk. And the memos pecking at his head. In other words: his actual work. It’s no exaggeration to say that the piles are monstrous. They tower over him, and a few of them are glowing ominously. 

The life of an Auror isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Forget glamorous broom chases and stakeouts, most of his work is filing and data entry. The knowledge that it could be done a thousand times quicker if he had one of Dudley’s computers is physically painful. Not that the work gets done at all. A few coffee breaks, a trip down to see Ron on Level Seven, toilet breaks every hour (no more than fifteen minutes at a time), sneaking a herbal cigarette in the Archives room, and scribbling nonsense with a quill whenever Robards looks his way is enough to fill up a day. 

Harry grabs a memo whizzing past his ear and crumples it in his fist. The office becomes marginally more peaceful. It’s then that he notices a mug perched precariously on the edge of his desk. What could it be? Smells like coffee. And who could it be from? It’s not like anyone in this office to bring him coffee, not even Patience. 

He’s never really made friends at work. Some of classmates went into training with him, but they moved on to other things. Most of the staff don’t trust him because of the propaganda published by the _Daily Piss-take_ back when he was at school. To be fair, he doesn’t respect them either — they were conveniently absent during the Battle of Hogwarts, and seem to consider themselves better than him just because they were alive in the seventies.

Still, mysterious coffee is better than no coffee, and he’s yearning for a pick-me-up.

A screeching distracts him, and he turns his head sharply to see a smart tawny owl swoop through the air towards him. It drops an envelope into his lap without stopping and smashes straight into the window illusion. 

After apologising to his colleagues for the disturbance and nursing the bird back to health with some (slightly stale) owl treats from his desk drawer, he watches it fly out of the office and takes a closer look at the envelope.

It’s golden, and large, and it seems to be… breathing.

[ **I’ll open the golden envelope first, it might be important** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60381493)

[ **I’ll take a fortifying sip of mysterious coffee first** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60381682)


	2. The letter explodes with a bang

The letter explodes with a bang. A whirl of brightly coloured confetti bursts forth, showering him. Temporarily blinded, he waves his arms to disperse and it and sends a paperwork skyscraper crashing to the floor, papers now flying in every direction too. A grumpy Auror with an eyepatch pokes his nose over the dividing wall between their cubicles and grumbles. Harry sticks two fingers up at him.

He takes a few minutes to grimace at the devastation. He didn’t think his desk could possibly look any worse. Thankfully, the coffee mug survived the avalanche — although pink and green confetti floats on the surface of the drink.

He glances down at the letter in his hand; the golden envelope has torn itself to shreds, leaving paper shrapnel littered around his chair. Shiny envelopes usually mean one thing in the wizarding world. True enough, surrounded by embossed silver curlicue, the letter reads:

**_Ginevra Molly_ _Weasley_**

_and_

** _Dean Thomas_ **

_request the honour of your presence at their marriage bonding on  
  
Saturday, the twenty fourth of June, two thousand and six_

_at  
  
ten o’clock in the morning_

He skims over the dress code and wedding location, eyes resting on the calligraphic _R.S.V.P._ at the bottom of the paper. It’s offensively flowery, which leads him to think that Dean designed the invitations. He was always arty at school. Ginny used to be the type of girl who would run a mile at things like this.

So, they’re getting married then. Fantastic. That’s not a kick in the balls at all. How lovely for her! The only girl he ever dated (unless you count a wet half-snog and an abortive date at Madam Puddifoot’s tea shop to be serious romance) is getting married, how brilliant. He’d known they were together, but…

  
He taps the letter with his wand, sending it back to his flat to deal with later. Leaning back in his chair and scrubbing at his eyes, he tries to remember the last time he spoke to Ginny. It must have been months ago.

Truth be told, he’s surprised he’s been deemed worthy enough to receive an invite to her wedding. He was under the impression that she was still furious with him after the cruel way he dumped her. Much like her mother, Ginny Weasley knows how to hold a grudge.

Maybe it’s all water under the bridge, he thinks doubtfully. Perhaps Ron had talked her down, told her to forget about him. Or Obliviated her? He had never been too keen on their relationship. He wonders what Ron thinks about her marrying Dean.

At the sound of Robards’ door opening, he hastily grabs a quill and begins scribbling on some nearby parchment. Form AVPM-235, a half-filled in report about a public indecency case. It’s already decorated with doodles of brooms and snitches from his previous attempts at looking busy. 

He’s probably going to get the sack if he carries on like this. Harry’s not sure if he cares. He doesn’t feel like he belongs here, but he feels strongly in his bones as if he _should_ . Then again, it could be time for something new — maybe he should fuck off to Timbuktu and start a new life.

“Timbuktu, Paris, the Amazon rainforest,” he mumbles. “Anywhere but here…”

“Talking to yourself, eh Potter? That’s the first sign of madness, you know.” 

Draco Malfoy’s inimitable head is poking round the door behind Harry’s desk. 

He must have come up the stairwell from the Pest Advisory Bureau. Malfoy found his calling in that department — being a pest himself, he’s the best person to advise on them. 

He doesn’t know where Malfoy gets off thinking he can just barge into the Auror offices whenever he feels like it. And his words rankle, however benign. Malfoy had repeatedly accused him of madness while they were at school, and while they may have mutually agreed to put all that nastiness behind them, it reminds Harry how lately he feels that he’s losing the plot. 

“How’s life in the Snorer Department?” asks Malfoy, flashing a wicked toothy smile and doing a double-take at the horrendous mess of paperwork and confetti on both desk and floor. He tucks a lock of blond hair behind his ear but it immediately bounces free. “Is this a new Ministry filing system I don’t know about? Please, enlighten me.”

Pulling up a chair from the vacated desk beside Harry, he sprawls in it, arms and legs wide like a crane fly. He looks like he’s trying to display an air of confidence, but the nervous rhythm of his tapping fingers betrays him. It’s noticing this that prevents Harry from outright telling him to fuck off.

“Hello,” he says carefully.

“D’you know that charm on your window’s stuck, by the way?”

“Mm.”

“It needs refreshing. You ought to tell Maintenance.”

“Hmm.”

“There’s a lot of confetti round here.”

“Look, what do you want?” Harry snaps. 

Malfoy flinches, but recovers, running a hand through his hair. It falls softly around his face, like a fashionable gentlewizard you might see on the cover of a magazine. It’s endearing, but Harry reminds himself not to be fooled by the charming exterior. No matter how fit he might be these days. 

“Fancy a trip to Hell?” Malfoy asks innocently.

“Excuse me?”

“The Hellfire caves, down in West Wycombe. Muggles reported sightings of a Devilish Baboon, and I’ve been sent to investigate it. Want to come with?”

Ah, not _really_ Hell. Harrys’s not sure if he should be disappointed or relieved. He’s mostly annoyed, this must be the third time this month that Malfoy has popped in trying to fob work off on him. He’s such a skiver. That hasn’t changed. Unfortunately, he never passes stuff along that Harry could promise to do and then conveniently ignore, instead he has this bizarre fixation on the two of them working together. 

“Er, I don’t even know what a Devilish Baboon is,” he says, wondering why he would be a good person to help with this. Malfoy frowns.

“It’s exactly as the name suggests, Potter. Though I doubt that’s what it really is, it’s probably children messing about and scaring people. Still, it needs sorting. So how about it?”

How enticing, the thought of spending the morning in a cave. The Auror office is cave-like enough, with it’s curved ceiling and slight smell of damp. Add in Schrödinger’s baboon, and he’s not sure how he can resist. 

But he has nothing else to do, other than sip a cold cup of confetti-flavoured coffee or go and bother Hermione.

[ **Take me to hell, baby. Let’s go spelunking** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382081)

**[This coffee is just like me: bitter. I’ll stay here and sulk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60381880)  
**

[ **I think I’ll go and visit Hermione, she always has unsolicited life advice** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60381973)


	3. Nods and nods like a nodding dog

The smell of cleaning charms burns Harry’s throat. His sinuses feel as if they have been rubbed raw. Lifting his head groggily, he can see that he’s in a private room at St Mungo’s; Mediwitches bustle through the corridor beyond the open door. Glowing sconces scatter warm light over the room; it’s already nighttime. He must have been unconscious all day.

Two seated figures are having a whispered conversation by his bedside.

When he tries to speak, he ends up coughing painfully. His arms and hands are sea green and blotchy.

“Harry! Here, drink this,” says the blurry shape that is Hermione, handing him a cut crystal glass filled with a viscous purple liquid. It tastes like a mixture of honey and wax crayons, but it soothes his throat enormously. “You drank… you’ve been poisoned.”

Harry picks up his glasses from the wooden table by his bedside and puts them on. Now he can see the second figure — Malfoy! He eyes him suspiciously. What’s he doing here? Malfoy was always good at Potions, it wouldn’t be too hard for him to brew up some poison…

“It’s lucky I carry a bezoar with me at all times,” Malfoy says, affronted. Harry stares. “No need to thank me,” Malfoy continues, like a prat. “I’ll get you some— well, not coffee, I suppose. Tea?”

Harry nods, still groggy, collapsing back on to the pillows and watching Malfoy leave. _He saved my life. I guess we’re even now,_ he thinks. Then he catches sight of the expression on Hermione’s face and prepares himself for a thorough character assassination.

“What happened?” she says, brown eyes piercing and unblinking.

“Er, I dunno. I dropped my eggs… no coffee… but then there was coffee, so I drank it. And now Malfoy’s here?”

She doesn’t appear satisfied with this recollection of events.

“You drank poisoned coffee,” Hermione says slowly. “Where did the poison come from?”

He doesn’t know. Who would want to poison him? Ginny? He doubts it— if she tried, there’s no way she would be unsuccessful. Besides, in the Weasley household, revenge is a dish best served hot. 

Harry shrugs.

Hermione leans in closer, reaching out a hand and gripping his wrist tightly. 

“Why did you drink it?” she says softly, eyes still unblinking, scanning his face.

“Well, I didn’t know it had poison in it!” He laughs. She doesn’t. “Why would I… Hermione!” Shocked, he tries to pull away from her, but her grip on his arm is vice-like. “You think I did this to myself?”

She can’t possibly think… he would never. Not him. He already died for God’s sake, or Merlin’s sake, for whoever’s sake. He already chose to live. 

“You’ve lost your job, your ex is getting married, you never leave your flat, you don’t even have a pet. You don’t talk to us anymore. You’ve been closed off, you don’t do the things you used to enjoy… But it’s alright,” she pleads, “It’s going to be alright. We can help you. We’re here for you. Me and Ron. And— everyone.”

“Hang on, ex, what? Married? Lost my job? ‘Mione, what the flipping fuck?”

She lets go of his arm to rub at her face, brushing her bushy hair away and looking up at the ceiling.

“You must have known it was coming, Harry. Proudfoot told me earlier, they’re letting you go. You weren’t at your desk in the middle of the day, they actually thought you’d had enough and decided to leave before they could fire you. I only knew you were in hospital because… well, I have my ways. You _swear_ you didn’t do it on purpose?” 

He almost shouts at her, but is distracted by a friendly ginger face knocking at the door. Hermione gets up and dries her eyes.

“I need to sort out your next of kin. I asked at the desk, they said you didn’t have anyone put down. I’ll give them our names and addresses, shall I?”

“You do that,” he says. She sweeps out.

Ron edges in and plops down in the visitor’s chair.

“Alright?” he says, eyeing Harry’s new green tinge.

“I’m alright. You?”

“Yeah, I’m alright. You alright?”

“No,” he says, breaking their familiar back and forth routine.

Ron nods understandingly. Nods and nods like a nodding dog. Arthur collects them now. They’ve tried to explain that car dashboard decorations don’t have a deep spiritual meaning for Muggles, but haven’t succeeded yet.

“Poison,” Ron says. “I remember how it feels. I’m glad the Ferret found you, mate.”

“Mmm,” Harry says. Malfoy’s taking his fucking time with that tea. 

“So, Ginny, eh? Can’t believe she’s settling down, I reckoned she’d be the last of us.”

“Hermione said— she’s getting married?”

“What, you didn’t open your invite? You must have done, they found that arsing confetti all over your desk. They’ve taken all your stuff in for evidence, until they find who poisoned you.”

Did Harry get an invitation? He doesn’t remember. There was an owl, and a golden envelope, but it’s all hazy after that. But that’s perfect. Ginny gets to marry Dean, and Harry gets to spend the day at St Mungo’s, poisoned and unemployed.

“You two haven’t talked for ages. Must be, what, months?”

“Yep.”

“But you are gonna go, right? You’re gonna make it up, sort out whatever happened?”

“Nope.”

“Harry. Don’t be stupid. Can’t you at least tell me? Maybe I can help.”

Harry snorts. Unlikely.

“Okay, whenever you want to talk, you know I’ll be here, right? I’ll always be there for you.”

“We’re talking right now,” Harry says obtusely. 

There’s an itchy silence that lasts for a few minutes.

“Harry. For fuck’s sake. You can tell me about, about the bleeding afterlife, but you won’t tell me why you broke up with Gin? Don’t tell me it’s none of my business, she’s my sister. And you’re my best friend. ”

It’s then that Malfoy appears in the doorway, holding an antique teacup and saucer. Is that why it took him so long, was he fetching it from the 1860s? Ron jumps out of his chair and throws him an annoyed look for interrupting them.

“Look, I’ve got to run, the Bug’s double parked,” he says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. 

Malfoy whips his wand out and spells the door to shut behind Ron, making it slam so viciously that a vase of Ever-Fresh freesias falls to the floor. He sighs, mends the vase, and while he’s at it, transfigures it to be more elegant than before.

“Here’s your tea.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, discreetly checking for poison, just in case. It tastes perfect — two sugars, just how he likes it. “So… how come you were around? I don’t remember much.”

“Well, I only came to see if you wanted to go out with me.”

Harry nearly spits out his tea. When Malfoy puts it like that, it sounds like something completely different. Then he realises.

“Trying to get me to be your dogsbody in the arse-end of nowhere again?” Malfoy regularly pops in to the Auror department to invite Harry to go trekking around finding pests with him. Harry has no idea why.

“Yes, that’s it, I want you to be my assistant. You make everything so much easier,” Malfoy says sarcastically.

“Oh, come off it. You’re always trying to foist your work on me. And I don’t even know what it is you do.”

“I’m not trying to foist my work on you,” Malfoy says. He sounds oddly hurt. His fingers are tangled in his lap.

“What are you doing, then?” 

There is a long pause before Malfoy answers, his face half in shadow, half bathed in dim lamplight, both halves looking uncertain.

“…Isn’t it obvious, Harry?”

That’s it. Hermione thinks he tried to off himself, Ron’s pissed off, and now Malfoy’s being cryptic. What is wrong with everyone today? And how long after a poisoning does one’s mouth stop tasting like feet?

“No. And if you’re not going to tell me, I guess I’ll never know. We probably won’t see each other again, anyway. I’m not working at the Ministry anymore.” 

A Healer raps smartly at the closed door.

“I’d better go,” Malfoy says quietly. “I’ve got to feed my cat.”

“Sure you have,” he mutters, just to be a dick.

“If you keep pushing everyone away, you’ll have no-one,” Malfoy spits. He Disapparates before Harry can respond.

*

  
Harry discharges himself at three in the morning after shouting at one of the Healers. He’s got a headache the size of China and a list of potions to take on the hour, every hour. He’s also got strict instructions from Hermione not to consume anything he can’t verify the source of, and never to leave drinks unattended. He might as well start drinking from a hip flask like Mad-Eye Moody. 

Back at his flat, he wanders about listlessly, not feeling much like sleeping after spending fourteen hours unconscious. There’s no-one to talk to and nothing to do. He finds a letter with the Hogwarts seal waiting for him on the kitchen counter, but can’t be bothered to open it. 

When dawn breaks, he decides he can’t take the boredom anymore. He pulls his trunk down from the top of his wardrobe and lays it open. Acting on autopilot, he spells his belongings into it, room by room. Toothbrushes and shower gel, clothes, shoes, shelves of books, the brick red radio he keeps on the kitchen windowsill, and the potions from St Mungo’s all dive into the magically enlarged suitcase. 

He charms the trunk weightless, ties it to his broom, and leaves.

*

_Three months later_

Hovering high above a chateau in the north of France, Harry pulls half a cheese and ham sandwich out his pocket and stuffs it in his mouth. From up on his broom he can see miles and miles of sprawling fields. The houses and cars below look like tiny toys. An egret passes by looking confused at seeing a human up in the clouds.

He’s renting a small place nearby. He had to get away from things for a while. Here no-one even recognises him as Harry Potter, instead they think of him as that funny boy who struggles to ask for a baguette at the boulangerie. Dudley was taught French at school, but Harry never learnt any. Hogwarts was a bit lax on that sort of thing. 

Ginny and Dean are probably exchanging rings right now. Good for them. 

Shame he didn’t get a happy ending.

[fin]

[ **What if I had made different choices?** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60381352)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! But uh oh, this wasn't the best ending. The story is a bit longer if you make different choices. I've never written anything this complicated before, so I hope it makes even a little sense! Comments are welcome, I’m sure there’s a few mistakes in here…


	4. This coffee is just like me: bitter

“No thanks, I’ll pass. Stuff to do,” he says, turning back to the work he is ostensibly working on. Malfoy ceases tapping his fingers and raises his eyebrows at the snitch doodles across the parchment. Harry points his wand to get rid of them and ends up vanishing half the form.

“Is the Golden Boy going to sulk because he didn’t get the ginger girl?”

Harry glares. Malfoy must have heard the news from someone this morning, there’s no way he’d bag an invite to _that_ wedding. And he must be peeved off if he’s resorting to such a cheap shot. 

“Go away,” he says a little too loudly. The Auror in the eyepatch reappears above the desk divider looking disapproving. Harry turns his glare on him until he sits back down. Malfoy is resting his chin on his hand, gazing into space in the direction of the scuffed pinboard at the front of the office. 

“I don’t know why I bother,” Malfoy says flatly.

Bother doing what? 

Harry reaches for his coffee mug, which is as cold as a dead Flobberworm, but caffeine is caffeine. 

Ah, there’s nothing like a good cup of coffee. 

And this is nothing like a good cup of coffee.

It tastes like piss. Which is par for the course for the Ministry, but it tastes exceptionally disgusting today, perhaps as a result of his sour mood. He actually _feels_ sour — stale, burning, his lungs feel like they are turning inside out. The papers on his desk turn blurry, and twinkle, until everything is black.

_Needs two sugars,_ Harry thinks as he keels over and his skull bounces off the corner of the desk.  


[ **Wake up** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60381682)


	5. Hermione always has unsolicited advice

Harry walks away without saying goodbye to Malfoy and heads to the Atrium. He hasn’t got the authorisation to enter Mysteries, especially not since he smashed the place up in fifth year, so he asks the Reception Witch if Unspeakable Granger is available.

A few minutes later, Hermione materialises in a fireplace, wearing delicate lavender robes and carrying a smart, sturdy leather bag. It was the purchase she made with her first months wages; she charmed the interior to contain a miniature library with books arranged in a cabinet behind bolted doors. It stops them from toppling whenever she picks the bag up.

Hermione thinks of everything. Harry gets the feeling that she wishes she could organise the contents of his brain, too.

“Harry! You look… how are you?”

“Fine,” he says, hugging her and deciding not to be offended. “Just— Malfoy.”

“Oh? Come on, let’s go to St James and you can tell me all about it. I can take a break, but if I see any ФЖΨɆ while we’re out I’ll have to deal with them.”

Hermione’s work is so classified that if she says anything he’s not allowed to hear, all that comes out her mouth is a strange crackling and buzzing.

“No. Yes. Let’s go, but let’s talk about something else. And you’re doing it again, by the way.”

“Am I? Never mind, don’t think about it too much. Oh, clothes—“

She steps towards the street exit and then stops, pulling out her wand and tapping her robes. In the space of a blink, they transfigure into a smart lavender trench coat, with a baby blue woollen jumper and jeans underneath. Harry’s already dressed Muggle under his Auror robes, so he shrugs them off and deposits them on a waiting bench. 

They come out by the Tube station and turn left, passing the ugly Ministry of Justice building and dodging black cabs as they cross the road to the park. St James’s park is lush and green, even on this chilly March morning. Buckingham Palace sits squat and proud on one side, with Number 10 Downing Street on the other. It’s a calming sight, a haven of nature in dirty, bustling London.

The park itself is full of wildlife: swans, ducks, heron, and even pelicans mingling on the ornamental boulders in the middle of the lake. Not to mention pigeons — there must be more pigeons in London than people.

“So, how about Ginny and Dean tying the knot? I can hardly believe it, she’s gone out with more people than everyone in her family put together,” Hermione says as they amble through the park. There are some tourists taking pictures of statues, but the lawns are mostly deserted.

“Mm,” Harry says, not wanting to talk about this either.

“Are you thinking of taking a plus one? I know you’re not seeing anyone, but you could still take someone as a friend. I’m sure Draco would be happy to go with you.”

“I’m not sure I— what? Hermione, what? Malfoy? No. What?”

“I’m just saying. I know you never told me why you and Ginny broke up, but don’t think I don’t have my suspicions.”

Harry becomes immensely interested in the pale cream roses growing in a nearby bush. He has never before found them so deeply fascinating.

“Oh, not suspicions, that sounds terrible. I just mean, I have a guess. If you’re worried about what Ron would think, don’t be.”

They walk on. The willow trees are fascinating too.

“Look, I know he jokes about Percy. But he’s just trying to be funny, he doesn’t mean it. I’m sure he’d be accepting… Harry? Fine, let’s talk about something else. What about your job?”

“What ABOUT my job?” 

“When are you going to quit, seeing as you hate it so much?”

Well. That’s hard to argue with, considering that it’s true. He expected this, it’s not like Hermione to have a chat about the Quidditch scores or whatever it is normal people talk about with their friends.

They arrive at a bridge in the centre of the park and stop to admire the lake. A menagerie of birds are huddled on the banks. Harry leans against the railings.

“I don’t hate my job.”

Hermione makes a protesting noise that sounds like a squirrel being stamped on.

“Okay, I do hate it, but that’s fine. I have other things,” he tries.

“Do you? Harry, you never go anywhere. If someone hypothetically put a tracker on you, they would have seen that you did not go anywhere but your flat, the Ministry, and a corner shop in the last eight weeks.”

“Hypothetically, that would be very unethical.” He looks pointedly at her, but she waves him away.

“You don’t need the money, so what is it?”

“My Mum and Dad…” he starts, not knowing how to finish. “I think they would have been Aurors, if they had lived long enough. They would have wanted me to do something like this.”

“And my parents wanted me to be a dentist. But I’m not one.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not. Your parents aren’t here to be disappointed in you.” She crumples after catching the look on his face. She reaches out, but he stares steadfastly at the cool blue lake ahead of him. “No, that’s not what I meant! Your parents wouldn’t be disappointed in you, Harry. I know they’d be proud, but… you can’t live their lives. You have to live your life.”

“Do you think your Mum and Dad are disappointed in you?” he asks, trying to distract her.

He doesn’t really understand Hermione’s relationship with her parents. She’s the brightest witch of her age, she might even be better than Dumbledore, and she helped bring down a megalomaniac mass murderer before the age of eighteen. But her parents wish she had gone on skiing holidays and got a place at Oxford and not enchanted their minds and sent them to Australia, even if it was to save their lives.

“They… well. My life isn’t what they would have chosen for me. But that’s the point, it doesn’t matter. You have to do what’s best for you. I know— don’t tell me, I know you didn’t have a choice for most of your life, we all made sacrifices. But you have a choice now, Harry. Don’t you think it’s time to start taking control of your life?”

[ **Hermione is always right. It’s time.** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382453)

[ **I actually have really important things to be doing. Somewhere else.** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382006)


	6. I actually have really important things to be doing

“I should get back to work.” 

Hermione looks pityingly at him. He hates it. But it’s none of her business, is it? It’s his life, isn’t that what she was saying? He’ll just carry on. No-one really loves work, do they? Things will get better. Or they won’t, who the fuck knows. He can’t think about it anymore.

He walks away, leaving Hermione standing on the bridge. He gets back to the office with no memory of the journey. The mess on his desk is still untouched. It’s a pristine disaster. 

He’ll down that coffee, then maybe a nap if Robards isn’t looking. 

[ **Wake up** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60381682)


	7. Take me to hell, baby. Let’s go spelunking!

“Why not,” Harry says, standing up. 

Malfoy looks pleased, but shocked. 

“You’re not busy?” 

They eye the piles of paperwork that they both know Harry was never intending to finish.

“Nope. This place is Muggle, you said?” Malfoy nods, so Harry takes off his outer robes and throws them at a nearby coat stand. He misses and the robes fall to the floor, but the brass coat stand obediently bends over and picks them up. He’s dressed Muggle underneath, jeans and a faded old Harpies t-shirt. He’s never mastered the charm that transfigures robes into other clothes; they always turn out a bit too big. He pulls a battered leather jacket from his largest desk drawer and puts it on.

Malfoy is looking at him dazedly, and Harry looks back uncertainly, and there is an awkward pause while they look at each other for a few moments. It seems like he hadn’t prepared for the possibility that Harry would agree to come out with him. Strange, it must be every other week he begs him to skive off and help him with his work. He knows Malfoy’s clever, it’s not that he _needs_ his help. He’s just lazy. Harry usually refuses, but today he’s realised that he can’t bear staying in this sodding office a minute longer. Better to go on some wild goose chase in fuck knows where in the countryside than to endure this monotony.

“Oh, right! Yes, of course,” Malfoy says quickly, pulling his wand deftly out of his sleeve and waving it grandly over his robes like a rhythmic gymnast wielding a ribbon. The pale grey wool shifts and knits itself into a cosy-looking speckled jumper over neat twill trousers. He looks at Harry nervously, as if waiting for his approval. 

“Uh, yep. Very…” he wants to say _soft,_ “…very Muggle.”

“Well, of course. Obviously,” Malfoy says, recovering his twattishness. “You might as well vanish that mess, or you’ll be stuck with it until retirement.”

“Go on,” he sighs, elbowing Malfoy towards the door, “take me to Hell…”

*

Hell is a sunny hilltop in the south-east of England. After making their way to the Atrium together, fighting all the way over the green bit of paper containing the Apparition co-ordinates that Malfoy wouldn’t let Harry look at, they Side-Along to a dirt-trodden path in front of what looks like a mausoleum. The iron gates are locked, but Harry can spot well kempt tombs and headstones. Draco tugs on his arm gently. 

“This way, the caves are underneath us.”

There are rolling green fields in every direction, sprinkled with daffodils. It looks how the scene in his frozen office window should look, with everything bright and alive. This hill is a steep climb, he thinks grimly. He wouldn’t like to be walking up it at the end of a long day. 

The harsh spring wind whips up his hair and threatens to steal his glasses away. He can see a village lying low in a distant valley, and a large yellow country house. In his personal experience, grand country manors can be extremely hellish places. However, it all looks like quaint English countryside, and not where you’d find a… what was it? Demonic Orangutan?

Draco guides him towards a winding footpath, which they follow until they reach an open area with empty picnic tables. There is what looks like the face of an ancient cathedral set into the hill, towering above them imperiously. There’s also a sign pointing to the gift shop.

“What is this place?” 

“Muggle tourist attraction,” Draco explains. “Old political types used to hold meetings here, called themselves the Hellfire club. About three hundred years ago, mind you. I can’t believe they’re still making money off it.”

Draco strolls towards the arched entrance to the caves, pulling a tiny iron key out of his trouser pocket. 

“Why ‘Hellfire’? What did they do?” _Arsonists?_ he wonders. Perhaps they made gunpowder plots to get rid of their political opponents?

Draco snorts, pushing at the gate which opens with a rusty groan, and looking Harry square in the eye.

“Orgies, mainly.” 

Harry can feel his face going red entirely without his permission. This seems to bring Draco great satisfaction. “Wild sex parties, drinking, Satanic rituals. Not that Muggles have any idea what real Satanic rituals are like.” 

“Right,” Harry mumbles, feeling embarrassed and a more than a little stirred to hear Malfoy say the word ‘sex’. His mind wanders. Is Malfoy single? How often does he have sex? _Has_ he had sex? He must have, owing to the matter-of-fact way he said ‘orgies’. He probably has more sex than Harry, at any rate. Which is not hard.

“Coming?” Draco asks, casually hopping over the turnstile intended for paying visitors.

_If only._ Harry wrenches his mind out of the gutter, willing the colour in his face to go down. Here in the entrance to the caves the daylight illuminates the space up to a few feet, but further ahead looks pitch black. He follows, feeling as if the low ceiling is pressing down on him.

Draco walks on, but looks back when he realises Harry isn’t behind him. Instead he’s perusing a board on the wall, with educational information about the history of the area. He’s spotted a name in the list of the Hellfire club members: Thomas Potter.

“A distant relation?” Draco asks, seeing where Harry is looking. “Do you happen to share a taste in underground sex parties?”

Harry scoffs and shakes his head, not looking Malfoy in the eye. He’s never thought about it, actually. Would he enjoy that? Probably not, he’d rather not share. Besides, he can think of sexier places than a dank cave. 

They move in further along the tunnel, into the caves and downwards, crunching over gravel. The walls get narrower, as if they are closing in. Draco reaches an arm out to steady himself on the cave wall; his hand looks a sickly yellow in the dim light.  


“Ugh!” Draco stops suddenly and Harry crashes into the back of him.

“What?” Harry cranes his neck over Draco’s shoulder, expecting to see a dead rat. “They’re only dummies.”

“Disgusting.” Draco shivers. A display of mannequins dressed in seventeenth century clothing is arranged in a recess in the cave wall. Dim electric lights above them cast eerie shadows. However, on closer inspection the dummies’ painted faces seem to be a bit heavy on the eyeshadow, as if they were borrowed from a local Woolies. 

“Scared? Want me to hold your hand?” Harry teases.

“You wish!” Draco laughs breathily, bats Harry’s outstretched arm away and dashes ahead.

“So,” Harry says, jogging to catch up. “What do we do if we find this Diabolical gorilla thingy?”

“Devilish baboon. Rumour has it that one of the Hellfire club dressed a monkey up as the devil and set it on the Earl of Sandwich as a prank. The owners think it lives in the caves — and what a great tourist attraction that would be — but there’s no way it’s still here, we won’t find anything.”

“So, this is just a colossal waste of time?”

“As opposed to your sensational plans for this morning?” Draco shoots back.

Hmm.

They reach a fork in the park, the tunnel diverges. 

“Which way, Potter?”

[ **Left** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382102)

[ **Right** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382120)


	8. Go left

“Left?”

“Alright, you go left.” Draco moves into the right-hand tunnel and disappears. “They lead to the same place anyway,” he calls. “Scream if you see a baboon!”

[ **Hang on, what?** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382234)


	9. Go right

“Right?”

“Alright, you go right.” Draco moves into the left-hand tunnel and disappears. “They lead to the same place anyway,” he calls. “Scream if you see a baboon!”

[ **Hang on, what?** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382234)


	10. All roads lead to Rome

“Hang on, what?”

He can hear Draco running. Well, it’s a race then. He won’t lose. Feeling sparked with joy at the sudden challenge, however childish, he races through the tunnel, kicking up storms of gravel behind him. Already breathless, he hurtles towards a dim glowing light in the distance and a minute later crashes straight into Draco coming out of the other tunnel.

They grab on to each other, trying not to fall over. He can feel Draco’s breath on his ear.

“Let’s call it a draw,” Harry says, stepping back. “You were right, they did lead to the same place.” 

“All roads lead to Rome,” Draco says, trying to sound philosophical but ruining the effect by panting heavily, hands braced on his knees. “Well, in Italy they do. I checked the map before we went in, it’s the next left and then a right to get to the main area.”

The main area is a large, circular space with an extraordinarily high ceiling. This must be where the Hellfire club was held, it’s the only part of the caves big enough for it. There are mannequins here, too.

This deep in the cave, water drips from the ceiling, occasionally splashing on Harry’s glasses. He looks up and sees intriguing rock formations.

“You know, I can never remember the difference between stalagmites and—”

He is interrupted by an almighty, wild scream.

Malfoy ducks down and covers his ears. Harry twists around, looking at the tunnel they just came through, and reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for his wand. The scream echoes terribly around the circular room — but it sounded like it came from right beside them.

Just then he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. A mannequin jerks into life — a nun is leaping out of a high recess in the wall and flying straight towards them.

“Jesus fuck!” Harry yells, and swings his arm out, catching the flying nun in the chest. 

It doubles over, moaning in pain but also… laughing? 

When the nun straightens up, Harry realises that it’s Blaise Zabini in a Hallowe’en costume. He whips his wand out and aims it at Zabini’s chest, right at the big gold (and probably plastic) cross swinging from his neck.

“What the fuck are you thinking?” Malfoy hisses, grabbing Harry’s arm. “We don’t want hexes bouncing around in here, you’d cause a fucking cave-in.”

It wouldn’t be the first time Harry had witnessed a cave-in firsthand. Ah, memories.

“Me? What the fuck is _he_ thinking?”

Draco sighs. “Actually, what are you thinking, Blaise? You scared the shit out of me.” 

Zabini laughs deeply, the prick.

“Heard you were sent down here, thought I’d have a bit of fun. Forgot you had a hair trigger,” he groans, massaging his chest.

“Seen a baboon around, Blaise? Vengeful ghost, banshee?” Malfoy asks.

“Nope,” Zabini says cheerfully. “What are you doing here anyway, Harry? You never come on Draco’s jolly jaunts. He cries himself to sleep at night because of it.” Malfoy wrenches the nun’s habit off Zabini’s head and hits him with it. “You should come more often, we have great fun!”

“Yeah. This is fun,” Harry says tonelessly. “Nice outfit,” he adds.

“Thank you!” Sarcasm is lost on Blaise Zabini. “Suits me, doesn’t it? I’ve always thought being a nun was my calling, sartorially.” 

Draco snorts. “Yeah, if it wasn’t for the vow of chastity.”

Speaking of chastity, Harry is reminded of something he accidentally saw years ago, at the Yule Ball. After watching Parvati storm off, and then watching Hermione storm off, he caught sight of Pansy Parkinson storming off. He followed Malfoy (her date for the night) to try and catch him in the act of evildoing, and instead found him kissing Zabini enthusiastically against a stone statue of a warthog. 

They hadn’t noticed him. He wonders if they’re still together. 

“Chastity, that’s right. You’d be perfect for it then, Draco! But be careful, it’ll shrivel up if you don’t use it,” he grins, flicking his eyes at Draco’s trousers.

Maybe he’s single, after all?

It’s then that they hear another horrendous scream — an animalistic, primal wail.

“That sounded like a Hinkypunk,” Draco mutters. “I suppose you could mistake it for a primate, if you squint.” ****

“It’s there,” Harry says. The bizarre, one-legged, smoke-like creature hops towards them, carrying a lantern despite having no discernible arms. “How do we kill it?”

Malfoy and Zabini stare at him, conveying both pity and disgust. 

“In the P.A.B., we can’t go about _murdering_ whatever we like. You’d know this if you came on Draco’s jolly jaunts, he can tell you all about the precepts of civilised society.”

“Shut up, Blaise. We’ll capture it and take it back to headquarters, they’ll probably release it somewhere. Hinkypunks are supposed to live around bogs, anyway. Give me that funny hat back.”

Draco holds the nun’s habit aloft like a matador. A matador in a woolly jumper. 

“Come on, lure it over here.”

Zabini is fixing his hair — does he carry an Afro comb with him at all times? — so Harry lights his wand with a gentle Lumos and guides the hopping creature towards Malfoy’s makeshift net.

“This way, over here… Got it!”

They wrestle with beast and fabric for what feels like ten minutes, knotting the habit up and trapping the Hinkypunk inside. Zabini takes off the gold cross and ties the chain around the knot for good measure. The creature whimpers and sniffles. 

“Right, back to HQ then?” Zabini says, unflustered. 

Harry looks up from mending scorches in the sleeve of his jumper from the Hinkypunk’s lantern, while Draco is struggling to keep hold of the wriggling package. Draco catches his eye and he stifles a laugh.

They make their way back to the entrance, ducking away from drips and trying not to slip on wet gravel in the darkness. When they come to a fork in the path, Draco guides them.

“This is like the Chamber of Secrets,” Harry says to himself.

“What were they, by the way?” Zabini asks.

“What?” 

“The secrets. Secrets, plural. What were they?”

“Uh…” Well, there was that bloody great snake monster that petrified students, ghosts, and Mrs Norris. Were there other secrets? Harry has no fucking idea. He can honestly say it never crossed his mind.

“Potter, do you remember that time you lost all the bones in your arm? I do, it was very funny. Draco was telling me…”   


*

When he’s about ready to hit Zabini again, at last they reach the front gate. Despite the cloudy sky, after being deep underground the weak sunlight is almost blindingly bright. He blinks repeatedly and hears Malfoy scorn: 

“What unholy prick owns that monstrosity?”

The monstrosity in question is a familiar vintage Volkswagen Beetle, parked between the picnic tables. It belongs to Ron, who affectionately calls it the Bug. The Bug is blue like the old Ford Anglia, but a much smoother ride and not about to run away to live with Acromantula in the Forbidden Forest. Hermione has tried to organise an intervention before now; his family are concerned that Ron loves the Bug a little _too_ much.

Its owner is leaning on the bonnet, and raises a hand to Harry in greeting. He falters at the sight of Zabini’s unconventional outfit, looking bamboozled.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, equally bamboozled.

“Come to get you, of course. Thought you might be stuck in there. I was gonna give it five minutes and before I sent a Patronus.”

Harry feels a fierce rush of loyalty and appreciation. He can feel his face doing something embarrassing. Ron claps him on the back. 

“I’ll always be there for you,” he says, cheesily but sincerely. “Anytime you need me.”

“Get a room,” Zabini sings salaciously. 

“Want a lift back?” Ron calls to him. “We’re not far from London.” Draco perks up, eyeing the car trepidatiously.

“Not for me, thanks. I need to get to Middle Wallop sharpish,” Zabini says politely. Then he shucks off his nun outfit and enchants it to fly back into the cave, presumably to redress the mannequin he stole it from. He’s not wearing a shirt underneath. That’s quite a few abs he’s got there — Harry hadn’t noticed those back in school. 

Zabini catches Harry looking, winks, and Disapparates with a sharp crack. Ron coughs. Draco puts his face in his hands. 

“Er, anyway… what were you doing in there?” Ron pats the roof of the car twice and three of the doors open. He and Harry slide into the front while Malfoy nervously climbs into the back, clutching the makeshift Hinkypunk containment unit. 

“Pest control,” Harry answers.

“Zabini was the pest, I take it?” He hears Draco snort from the backseat and mutter something about ‘sex pests’. 

“How did you know I’d be here?” he asks Ron. 

“Hermione,” Ron says, starting the engine and twiddling with the mirrors and the dials on the radio. He expertly reverses out of the area with the picnic tables and they drive up the steep hill, back towards the mausoleum.

“I didn’t tell Hermione I was coming here.”

“Yeeeeah,” Ron says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, “I think she’s got a tracker on you.”

Has she? Typical. It’s hard to have privacy when everyone around you thinks they know what’s best for you. Still, perhaps he should thank her — if he _had_ been accosted by a Demented Simian and got lost underground, at least someone would have known about it.

At the crest of the hill, Ron puts his foot to the floor and the engine roars angrily. Draco clutches his seat and gasps as they take off into the sky, rising up above the clouds. Harry is tickled by the look on his face.

“Heard the news?” Ron asks, swerving to avoid a flock of geese heading their way.

“Mm?”

“Can’t believe it. Dean’s not bad, but it’s barmy to think that my little sister is getting married. I remember when she used to wet the bed!”

“Mm.”

“I’ll make her apologise for putting that pissing confetti in the invitations, mind. I’m still picking it out of my ears.”

“Mmm.”

“Should be a good stag do though! Seamus is best man, you know what he’s like.” In the back, Draco shudders. Everyone knows what Seamus is like. “We never did get that string cheese off the common room ceiling…”

“Mmmm.”

“Okay, what’s wrong with you?” 

“Nothing!” Harry yells. The Hinkypunk wails from the backseat.

“Look, I know something bad happened with you and Gin, but this is the perfect chance to make it up. Clear the air and all that. You are going to, aren’t you?” Ron says, his voice hard. Harry takes a deep breath.

“It’s… weird. I’m her ex.”

“Yeah, you and about fifty others. She’d kiss a puffskein if it gave her the eye.” Draco snorts again and Ron shoots him a warning look in the rearview mirror. 

That’s true, he’s not her only ex. That’s not the issue. The real issue is showing up, congratulating Ginny on the happiest day of her life, and then going home alone in the flat he shares with absolutely no-one. Getting drunk and passing out on a bouncy castle is a definite possibility.

“You broke up years ago. But you never dated anyone else. Did she curse your bits off, or what?”

“I was crazy about her,” Harry says unconvincingly, not even believing it himself. Ron turns fully to look at him, taking both hands off the wheel. The car spins in midair. Draco slides across the backseat, panicking. 

“Harry, you were NOT crazy about her,” Ron says loudly. “There’s only one person you’ve ever been crazy about, and he’s sitting in this car with us!”

Ron grips the steering wheel again. Harry stares straight ahead crossly, face burning.

Nobody speaks until they get back to London. Ron smoothly lowers the car onto a deserted backstreet by the Ministry, where Draco jumps out, looking a bit seasick. He grabs the cloth prison containing the Hinkypunk and slams the door shut behind him. Ron turns to Harry. 

“Whenever you’re ready to tell me the truth, I’ll listen. But you need to talk to Gin and sort things out.”

Harry dearly wants to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business, but tries not to let his irritation get the better of him. Ron did come to pick him up, after all, thinking he was in trouble. He bites his tongue, literally, and gets out of the car.

Draco looks curiously at him from the other side of the Bug. He can’t tell if Draco understands how accurate what Ron said was. He’s sure Ron doesn’t. There’s a slim chance Draco might have thought Harry is crazy about Hinkypunks.

[ **Sure, I’ll talk to Gin! I’ll tell her there’s no way I’m going to this effing wedding!** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382561)

[ **I cannot deal with this right now. I need to calm down. Maybe Hermione’s free?** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60381973)


	11. Time to go home

“You’re right.” It’s obvious. He needs to quit, even if he doesn’t know what on earth he’ll do instead. A lead weight lifts off his chest and he laughs suddenly, laughs at how stupid he’s been. He hugs her. Hermione hugs him back tightly but looks suspicious.

“I’ve got to go,” he says, running across the bridge. A fountain in the lake shoots water up as he passes. The water catches the sunlight behind the falling droplets, making them look like a shower of glittering coins. 

“Harry! You’re going the wrong way!” 

He’s not, finally he’s not. He crosses the red road in front of Buckingham Palace and runs all the way to Green Park station. He descends into the cavernous, labyrinthine depths of the London Underground, hopping on the first train that arrives and at last catching his breath. 

The sun is blinding as he exits out onto the street again, taking the quickest route back to his flat. He fetches his broom and sets off again. It’s clear what he should do, as clear as if he had taken Felix Felicis: he’s going home.

*

On second thought, this is madness. Two hours later, there’s significant chafing. Harry loves to fly, perhaps more than anything, but flying to Scotland all in one day is too hard on the arse. Somewhere over Nottingham he decides to cast some healing spells, Apparate to Hogsmeade and fly the rest of the way.

Seeing the castle in its full glory never fails to make his chest swell with pride and a fierce love. He walks up the drive, feeling lighter with every step. The gates swing open for him as he comes near. Without even thinking about where he is going, he crosses the covered bridge, passes through the clocktower courtyard and reaches the entrance hall, still as grand as the first day he ever set foot in it. Most of the students are in lessons at this hour of the day, but he spots a few older students sitting at the long tables in the Great Hall, anticipating lunch. 

He decides to make a visit to the Headmistress’s office. He has to take a few guesses at the password, but the gargoyle finally lets him through on “Eccles cakes”. McGonagall is behind her desk, penning a letter. She peers over her spectacles at him warmly.

“Harry, fancy seeing you here! I must express my gratitude, you’ve saved me some bother.”

“What do you mean, Professor?”

“Do sit down. I was writing you a letter, but since you are here I can tell you myself. This year, I find myself presented with an unprecedented deluge of vacancies. Did you know Professor Hagrid has moved to the Dordogne semi-permanently?”

Harry does know. Hagrid left for his honeymoon last August and still hasn’t come back.

“How’s he liking it?”

“Oh, very well. Much higher ceilings at Beauxbatons, he says. And Professor Vector has taken a residency position all the way in Nigeria, to research their Advanced Arithmancy curriculum.”

Harry nods.

“Perhaps that doesn’t interest you,” she says shrewdly, “but this might. Madam Hooch is thinking of retiring.”

“Oh,” Harry says, feeling a pinch of sadness. That’s a damn shame. He had his first flying lesson with Hooch, and he saw a lot of her due to Quidditch. She was a fair referee, and those are hard to come by.

“I will have to find someone to fill her position,” McGonagall says pointedly.

“Yes,” Harry nods sympathetically. 

McGonagall purses her lips.

“It concerns me that you achieved such exceptionally high grades on your N.E.W.T.S., but apparently need me to spell this out for you. Mr Potter, would you be interested in taking over the role of Flying Instructor, starting this September?”

Oh. _Oh._

_Flying!_ Of course he would be interested, he’d love to come back and live at Hogwarts. He doesn’t have teaching experience, unless you count teaching defensive spells to an underground resistance group. Actually, that probably does count. And teaching flying would mean being outdoors, too. It’s just the thing he needs.  
  
“Yes please,” he says faintly.

McGonagall smiles.

“I can’t promise to match your salary, but I can do my best.”

“I don’t care,” he says, sitting bolt upright as reality sinks in. “I’ll do it, I’ll take the job. Where do I sign?”

He thinks he hears some of the portraits scoff and laugh at him, but when he looks up, they are all pretending to be asleep. 

He couldn’t have imagined that despite his terrible morning, things would turn out so well. 

That said, there is one thing nagging at him. Ginny’s wedding. Perhaps he should put things right, and tell her the truth. Give her his congratulations or something, if she doesn’t bite his head off. Or instead, he could celebrate with lunch at the Leaky and a bit of daytime drinking.

[ **I’ll hand in my resignation, then it’s bottoms up (in more ways than one, hopefully)** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382627)

**  
[I’ll head to Ottery St. Catchpole, what have I got to lose?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382561)**


	12. A china pig

Three quarters of an hour later, Harry has lost his bottle. The thing is, he’s standing on the doorstep of the Burrow and Ginny has already spotted him. She swings the door open and grins widely at him, showing all her teeth. It’s a bit scary.

“I’ll give you two minutes to explain yourself,” she says very, very calmly.

Um. Right after she says this, Harry forgets what he came over to say. 

After one minute of silence (in which Harry opens and closes his mouth but finds no explanation forthcoming) Ginny walks back into the house. He follows her, trying desperately to think of something to say. If only he knew what Ginny wanted to hear, then he would say that. She’s standing facing the tall bookshelves, which are crammed with as many ornaments as there are books. 

“Congrats,” he says.

A china pig smashes against his forehead.

“Congrats? _Congrats?_ Is that all you have to say to me? Is that the best you can do? You can’t even manage the whole fucking word, not even ‘congratulations’?” she shouts, picking up another ornament and taking aim. 

“Congratulations!” he tries. Is that what she wants to hear? He ducks this time — a ceramic Jemima Puddleduck smashes into smithereens against the wall behind him. 

“Oh, thanks ever so much! How about SORRY? Can you say that?”

He tries, but the words are lost amongst a horde of bats flapping out of his nose and mouth. Classic Gin. He doesn’t try disarming her, it would only make her angrier. 

After the sixteenth bat flies out, he realises something: he’s NOT sorry.

“What are you angry at me for?” Harry yells. “Yes, I shouldn’t have broken up with you without giving you a reason, but get over it! You’ve got Dean, so what’s the problem?”

She stares at him, wand raised. The century old kitchen table stands between them.

“Jealous? Upset that I’m in love and you’re not? You’re sadder than Ron, even he’s got the Bug! That ugly car. You haven’t got anyone.”

“Right,” Harry laughs bitterly. “Right.”

“After everything we went through together, you just cast me aside like I was one of your stupid fans. And now you’ve got nothing to say? You are lower than low. If you’re secretly hiding a personality in there, you’re doing a very good job of it.” 

“At least you can _get_ married!”

“So can you! Find one of the thousands of witches flinging their knickers at the Famous Harry Potter and marry her!”

“I don’t want to marry a witch,” Harry shouts, feeling tired at all this shouting. Ginny waves her hands madly round her face, looking around as if she could make sense of him by finding a translation on the ceiling.

“So don’t?! You could never make a woman happy, anyway.”

“Right. That’s it. I— I can’t.” He surrenders, pulling out a wooden chair and sitting at the table. Ginny hasn’t stopped looking furious, but she lowers her wand and puts a heavy ship in a bottle back on the bookshelf. 

“Harry,” she says, “what on earth are you talking about?”

*

“Gay?” she repeats for the fiftieth time, half an hour later. They’re sitting in the garden, watching gnomes. The creatures keep peering over the side of the pond to get a better look at the fish, and then falling in. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know how,” he says. There wasn’t much point in telling people, until he was seeing someone and had to explain it. But of course, that never happened, because it’s hard to get a boyfriend if no-one knows you’re gay. And it’s hard to tell anyone if you can barely say the words out loud. “Plus, it’s my business.”

“Your business? I was your girlfriend, I think that makes it my business. Jesus, it shouldn’t be something to hide,” says Ginny. Easy for her to say, he thinks. Straight people never have to hide their sexuality. They’re always talking about their wives, or their kids, or walking around holding hands in the supermarket aisle in front of him when he’s trying to reach the chocolate digestives.

“Must be nice to be able to get legally married, eh?” 

Ginny shoots him a hunted look for some reason. 

“What do you think of Dean?” she asks worriedly.

“What do you mean? Dean’s great. We’ve always been mates. Slept in the same room for six years, we’re eternally bonded over suffering through Neville’s snoring.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, “but do you think he’s husband material?”

“Ginny, are you asking me if I fancy your fiancé? Because I’m not answering that.” If Ginny knew about his taste in men, he’d never hear the end of it. Everyone would stop bullying Ron about his obscene love for his car and rag on Harry instead.

“No, all I’m asking is, what do you think? Is he the type to get cold feet? We’re getting married soon but he’s always blagging off to spend time with bloody Seamus.”

Another gnome splashes headfirst into the pond.

“Don’t worry about it. He’s probably getting all his, y’know, bachelor-ness out of his system while he can. They must be planning the stag do.” 

Ginny looks mollified at this. Then Harry remembers something he’d forgotten. At Hogwarts, Dean and Seamus used to sleep in the same bed occasionally. Quite often. Regularly. Harry had never thought anything of it at the time, but now he wonders if that was naive. 

He and Ginny watch a line of gnomes parade across the garden wall, led by the chief gnome, whose head is larger and knobblier than all the others. The sun is kissing the horizon, casting a warm glow over the overgrown garden.

“I am sorry, Gin,” he admits.

“Oh, forget about it. I feel better now, that explains why you never wanted to touch me. I thought maybe it was because of your poor eyesight.”

“Thanks.”

“I could never have married you anyway, you think pineapple on pizza should be legalised.”

“We’ve been through this. It’s already legal. I said I don’t think it should be criminalised.”

“Harry, if you were right, I’d agree with you.”

If this is what married life with Gin would be like, Harry thanks Merlin he’s gay.

“Let me heal the cuts on your face,” she says. She cups his face and deftly removes the bleeding scratches with her wand, though not removing the memory of a flowery china pig hurtling towards his face at top speed. “You are coming to see me get married, aren’t you? It wouldn’t be right without you there.”

“Of course I am,” he says. It’ll probably be a nightmare, like all weddings, but he wouldn’t miss it. 

“Good. One more question,” says Ginny.

“Uh-oh.”

“Have you got your eye on anyone? I can set you up with Percy, if you like.”

[ **Er, must be off.** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382627)


	13. Quill poised

Harry’s earned a drink. A proper one that tastes nice, not strong spirits mixed, drunken, and then quickly regurgitated on the kitchen floor. He might head to the Leaky — but first, he’s going to quit this boring job before they fire him. 

Feeling much lighter, but also as exhausted as if he had had ten rounds with a Blast-ended Skrewt, Harry takes the gilded elevator back to the Auror office. Proudfoot looks up from her desk and says hello, but he walks straight past her.

His window has changed — the green meadow is gone. Instead of storybook blue, the sky is a dusky mauve, just as it had been outside moments earlier. It gets dark early this time of year, but due to the frozen window he had never been able to tell the beginning of the day from the end. And not just the sky has changed, the whole scene is different. 

It’s Hogwarts. 

It’s a dark, brooding mass of turrets and towers sticking up from the hillside, the lights from the windows glittering like constellations. He can see the light is on in McGonagall’s office. It’s beautiful. He wishes he were back there, now. That’s where he belongs.

It’s decided. Harry scrawls out a quick letter of resignation, trying his hardest to make it legible. Then he lifts his wand in the air like an orchestral conductor, ready to vanish all this bloody fucking paperwork into the aether, but—

He spots a note on his desk. A small scrap of parchment with neat handwriting. He lowers his wand and reads:

> _Potter,_
> 
> _Fixed the charm on your window. I thought you might like this better._
> 
> _D.M._
> 
> _P.S. I’m sorry about earlier. That wasn’t what I had planned._

What had Malfoy planned, exactly? It’s been a strange day. Maybe, a voice in Harry’s brain supplies, he should make it even stranger. He’s been wanting to know what Malfoy’s up to, inviting him to go off on little pest-related escapades together, and today he might take it upon himself to find out. Is it about work, or is there something deeper?

While he’s in the mood to take control of of his life, there’s something else he should do. He should tell Ron the truth.

Quill poised, he considers what to write.

[ **_‘Ron - can we talk?’_ ** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382879)

[ **_‘Malfoy - come for a drink with me?_ ’** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60382990)


	14. Emotional range of a kumquat

“Ron, I’ve got to tell you something.”

“Er, now?” 

Ron looks down the aisle where Ginny is going to appear in an extremely expensive wedding gown any second. All the guests are seated, wearing hats of varying luridity and size. Gwenog Jones has a peacock feather sticking out of hers. Ginny’s family takes up the three front rows on the left, while Dean’s mother and sisters sit proudly on the right, waving at Dean, whose face is shining with sweat. 

Harry whispers in Ron’s ear what he’s been trying to tell him for a long time. 

Ron jumps out of his chair in surprise, but conveniently at the same moment everyone else stands up, because Dedalus Diggle has started up the organ.

The ceremony is beautiful, even if Seamus passes the ring over somewhat reluctantly. 

*

“Blimey. Look, I know Hermione says I have the emotional range of a kumquat, but I’m— I’m fine it with. Totally fine. As long as you don’t fancy me,” Ron laughs nervously and hiccups. They’ve already started on the wine.

“Ron, you’re my best friend, and I can say in all honesty: I’ve never fancied you,” Harry says firmly and truthfully.

“…What? Why not?”

“Isn’t that always the way, Potter,” says a smooth voice from behind Harry. Malfoy winks at him. “Straight men are terrified you’ll grope them, and then mortally offended when you don’t.”

“You know, I might be a lesbian,” says Luna thoughtfully. She’s wearing a dress that seems to be made entirely from live bees. “I think men are beautiful, but I could only ever like them anaesthetically.” There’s a pause in the conversation, filled with gentle buzzing.

“You could only like men on painkillers?” Malfoy enquires.

“No, I mean looks-wise. Although, looks can be deceiving. Did you know Celestina Warbeck is one of the lizard people?” 

Everyone nods politely. There’s not enough time in the day to hear Luna’s explanation on the lizard people. A minute later Ron spots Oliver Wood over by the chocolate fountain and Luna floats off towards some fairy lights (made with real fairies), leaving Harry and Draco alone together. 

“So, has Weasley announced his engagement to that car of his yet?” Malfoy asks, fingering the stem of his wine glass. Harry laughs.

“Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time. He offered to spell “Just Married” on it and let Ginny borrow it to drive off into the sunset, but she said she’d rather take a 1997 Cleansweep.” The bride is on the dance floor, barefoot and waving her bouquet of singing snapdragons. Dean is… well, he must be around somewhere. 

“Speaking of flying, I heard about your new job. Congratulations.”

“Well, it’s still summer, so I haven’t really started yet,” Harry says. He tells Draco how McGonagall offered him the position of flying instructor since Madam Hooch plans to retire this year. He’s shadowing her, taking the necessary safety training, and thinking about making a charitable donation towards fixing the sorry state of the Hogwarts broomshed. 

“You seem happier,” Malfoy says simply.

He is. The last time he and Draco spoke properly must have been the day Harry decided to resign. Something had to change, he couldn’t go on pretending. 

Things hadn’t been great, back then. He wonders if he had been a git. If he had, Malfoy seems to have forgiven him. He’s wearing pale sage green robes, embroidered with glittering Celtic knots. There’s glitter on his face, too.

Everybody is in green, because Ginny wanted a forest wedding. Dean’s mother had insisted on a church for the ceremony (Merlin knows how she won that argument), but the reception is outside among the trees and the earth. There’s a magical marquee with a dance floor and some tables and chairs for those guests who don’t fancy getting mud all over their best shoes.

Harry and Draco stand together in comfortable silence, taking in the hubbub and excitement of the party around them. Michael Corner and Jack Sloper are over by the cake, admiringly assessing the seven tiers. Luna is standing at the buffet table, although her dress is significantly shorter than half an hour ago and there seems to be several more bees in the air; an elderly witch with a hand fan is swatting at them violently. In one extravagant swing she hits Lisa Turpin in the face, who falls backwards out of the marquee, dropping cake all over her robes. 

Kids are running about with toy wands, laughing and shrieking. Gold and silver bubbles burst from the tips and float around them, some taking off high into the sky. Harry waves at Neville, whose eyebrows are bright blue. He’s teaching Padma Patil how to tap dance.

“Want to dance?” Malfoy offers. 

Dance — with him? It’s never been one of Harry’s skills. While he might like to, now that Draco’s said it, he’d rather it wasn’t front of all these people…

“Um, not really,” he says.

“Good,” says Draco, “I wanted to show you something.”

He follows Draco deeper into the forest, away from the marquee. He levitates their glasses on to the tray of a passing waiter. It’s a balmy June evening, light and bright despite the late hour, and crickets chirp and cheer as they pass by.

They find two familiar suspects in lime green robes laughing madly outside a wooden hut filled with extra wedding supplies.

“Hewwo!” Fred and George squeak about seven octaves higher than usual, tipping their hats. “What bwings you here?”

“Is there helium in that tank?” Harry points. They sound like house elves.

“Dean’s famiwy ordered it for the bawoons…” George explains.

“…But we put them up by magic, so it was weft over,” Fred finishes, taking deep breaths.

“Riiight. And I’m guessing you’re the ones who spelled Neville’s eyebrows blue?” Harry asks. Malfoy takes a closer look at the tank and the long nozzle George is proffering. 

“Oh, I wondered why yours were pink,” says Draco. He takes a deep drag on the nozzle and squeaks, with great dignity: “I thought it was a new wook?” 

He offers the nozzle. Harry declines.

“Uh, didn’t you have something to show me?”

“Oooooh!” Fred and George chant together. “Three guesses what that might be! Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!”

Not understanding this at all, and generally not intending to do half the things the twins _do_ do, let alone what they wouldn’t do, he leaves them to it, giggling and running circles around an oak tree.

“This way,” Draco smiles, voice back to normal. 

Five minutes later, they reach the end of the woods and come to the edge of a large field. Harry can sense Notice-Me-Not charms — the air has a hazy quality to it over by that fence. As he gets closer two enormous Abraxans pop into existence. 

“Wow,” he breathes. These are big. Like, massive. The one on the right could seat twenty. Perhaps wizards should look into that as a mode of transport… of course, you’d need a Cherrypicker just to get onto it.

“I know the landowner,” Draco explains. “He breeds winged horses. He needed some advice from Pest Advisory about burrowing Doxies… He’s got a Pegasus foal somewhere round here, but you know they’re invisible until they’re a year old. Anyway, I thought you might want to have a look at them, I know you like creatures.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, still admiring the wings. Then he turns, touched. “Is that why you always used to try and get me to do stuff for Pest Advisory? You thought I’d like to see magical creatures?”

Draco looks pained.

“No.”

“…Why, then?” 

Draco pulls out a crystal-encrusted hip flask from deep within his robes, and takes a sip from it, unscrewing and screwing the cap back on very carefully to buy time. 

“Circe, I just wanted an excuse to hang out with you, I think.” He offers Harry the hip flask. It’s filled with Butterbeer of all things, and it warms him from his ears to the tips of his toes. 

“Hang out?” Harry laughs. “With me? You could’ve said.”

“Well,” Draco mumbles, taking the flask back and putting his lips where Harry’s had been moments earlier, “You didn’t seem to want to, so…”

“That’s because I thought you had some elaborate scheme to make me do your paperwork. I hate paperwork. And now I don’t have to do any at all! Flying lessons are all practical, thank fuck.” A thought occurs to him. “Are you here with anyone?”

“Mmm, I’m Luna’s plus-one. Or I thought I was, now it seems like I’m her beard.”

“You’re not a very convincing one,” Harry smiles.

“Good, I think? I don’t want to give people the wrong idea.”

“Me neither,” says Harry, moving closer. He knows Draco’s gay, he knows he and Zabini had a thing back at school. Also, he can just tell. He’s always been drawn to him. Push and pull. 

Maybe this is a bad idea, he thinks, kissing Draco softly on the mouth. A terrible mistake. Draco kisses back, harder. What if he feels this way because Draco’s the only other gay wizard he knows? And because he’s a bit tipsy? What if this doesn’t work out? A hand slips into his hair and another slips into his robes. _So what_ , he thinks. _So what._

One of the Abraxans stretches its enormous wings, sending a gust of wind so strong it threatens to blow them both over. Harry’s already weak at the knees. 

*

Three quarters of an hour later, they’re lying on their backs in the grass, having totally forgotten about the wedding or, indeed, anything but each other. 

“I’ve really got to get back,” Draco says into Harry’s ear, eyes closed. “I’ve got to feed my cat.”

“You have a cat?”

“Half-Kneazle, actually. White all over. She’s lovely. Want to join me?”

“To feed your cat?” Harry says in a low voice. Draco opens one eye.

“To feed my cat, come and see my etchings, maybe stay for breakfast. What do you think?”

_Yes,_ Harry thinks. He couldn’t have wished for more. 

[fin]

[ **But what if he had done things a little differently?** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60381352)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You didn't get the bad ending... but maybe there's one better? Have a look if you've got time. Comments are welcome, I’m sure there’s a few mistakes in here…


	15. Bottoms up

> _Malfoy - come for a drink with me?_

No, he can’t write that, can he? Is it too forward? Or not forward enough?

Quill poised, he dithers. He dithers so long that when he looks up, Malfoy is actually there.

“Oh, I was just—“ they both say at the same time.

“What were you going to…” they talk over each other again. Harry laughs.

“Potter,” Robards calls, leaning out of his office door crooking a fat finger, and Harry abruptly stops laughing.

“Will you wait for me? Please?” Draco nods. It must be the first time he’s said ‘please’ to Malfoy in his entire life. Bracing himself for what’s coming, he holds his head high and walks through the aisle of desks and clacking typewriters to Robards’ office.

He takes a seat in an uncomfortable chair and and tries not to stare at Robards’ ridiculous moustache.

“I think you know what I’m about to say to you, Potter,” Robards says. Harry is about to hand him the parchment with his resignation, but it’s a good thing he keeps his mouth shut. “But you’ll find the severance package fairly generous, now the department has… different priorities these days.” 

Different priorities. Harry tries not to laugh. _Absolutely nothing to bloody do, you mean._ Then his brain catches up: severance package?

*

“What will you do with it?” Draco asks over a pint at the Leaky, half an hour later. 

“Donate it to charity. I’ve got money, I don’t need it.” Harry is buzzing. He’s been let go from his awful job, he’s got nowhere to be tomorrow so he can stay up as late as he likes, and he even convinced Draco Malfoy to come for a drink with him. 

“Kneazle Needs?” Draco pinches a chip from the basket between them and pops it in his mouth gracefully. 

“I was thinking more along the lines of an orphanage,” Harry says, wiping salt all over his jeans, his face, and the upholstery. 

“I always thought you hated that job. I don’t know why you didn’t play professional Quidditch when we left school. You’re a Seeker, you need to be seeking… something.”

“I wouldn’t have liked the photoshoots. I miss flying, though. Then again, it would have got boring winning _every_ game,” Harry grins. Draco throws a handful of chips at his face. He catches one and eats it. “Hang on, if you knew I hated it, why were you always trying to get me to do more work!”

Draco looks at him pityingly. He doesn’t sound drunk in the slightest, but he’s got two red spots high on his cheeks. Harry wants to poke them. Draco’s hair has come loose from behind his ears and he keeps brushing his hand through it to make it behave. It’s highly distracting.

“Don’t be stupid,” Draco says, chin resting on his hand. “I just wanted to spend time with you.” 

“Really?”

“Yes,” Draco admits, going red all over now. “I was trying to be friends, believe it or not.” 

“I don’t want that,” Harry says quickly, and it comes out all wrong. Draco straightens up, as if Harry had thrown a bucket of cold water over him. He motions wordlessly to their pints, the baskets of chips on the table, and seems to be deciding which would be best to throw at him. 

“No!” Harry shouts, grabbing at Malfoy’s wrist as he decides on the pint glass. “Friends, but— more than friends. You know?”

“I might know if you say it properly, you absolute buffoon.”

Now it’s his turn to go red. Why does this stuff— words, _feelings—_ have to be so difficult? 

“I used to be crazy about you. I couldn’t control how I felt most of the time… well, all the time, that’s why I got in so much trouble. But then I fucked it up, I’ve been ignoring how I’m feeling. Like this stupid job. And— my friends don’t even know. That I’m gay. I should tell them, Hermione suspects. But, anyway, I was saying… Draco, every time you come and find me with some pest-related nonsense, I can’t stop thinking that I’m still crazy about you. I just got better at hiding it. I shouldn’t. I want to kiss you, all the time. I want to be with you. Am I saying this properly?” 

Harry looks up, realising that he’s rambled out this whole messy word vomit without actually looking Draco in the eyes. He’s looking back, serious. He bites his lip, slowly, sucking it into his mouth. Then he throws a few Galleons on the table.

“Come back to mine.”

*

The first time, it’s glorious. At first, Harry’s not sure where he’s allowed to touch. It turns out: _everywhere._

The second time, three hours later, is just as glorious. They lie together on the bed in Draco’s flat, boneless and unable to stop smiling at each other. Then something with claws jumps on him.

“Oh, don’t mind Hippolyta,” Draco says, stroking the furry white thing as it treads in circles on Harry’s bare chest.

“I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“There’s lots of things you don’t know about me,” he smirks, winking. “She’s part Kneazle actually, isn’t she beautiful?”

She is. Just like her owner. Still, he doesn’t say it. He’s got to hold some praise back, or their won’t be room in this bed for both their egos.

The 56th time they have sex, Harry is very very late. 

“I can’t,” he says, strangely enjoying the sensation of a tongue in his ear. “The stag do started at _eight._ ”

“It’s eight o’clock somewhere,” Draco reasons, lying back in bed with his arms behind his head. “Going to love me and leave me, are you?”

_Yes,_ he thinks automatically. _I am going to love you._

“You’re welcome to come along, you know? The more the merrier, Dean said.”

Draco shrugs, and says he might join him later. Dean was with his siblings all day, so he arranged a second stag do down at the Gryphon’s Knees with the old Gryffindor crew. Harry hunts around on the carpet for his underwear but gives up eventually, kissing Draco goodbye and Apparating commando.

They stamp his hand at the door of the club, and when he pushes his way inside he can hardly see for flashing lights. It’s like a glowstick apocalypse. It’s nice though, despite the din, because nobody notices he’s Harry Potter. When his eyes adjust, he goggles. The bartender has curled horns like a ram, and he’s handing out drinks with violet flames that don’t die out, even after partygoers tip them down their sweat-slicked throats. He puts a hand on the wall to find that it’s a tank. A mermaid with iridescent scales bares her silver teeth at him and looks him up and down. The music is like nothing he’s ever heard. 

Someone taps him on the shoulder — Neville, mouthing something. Harry shakes his head and is pulled through the throng of dancers, up an industrial looking staircase to the mezzanine floor where his old schoolmates are sitting on a plush sofa, arguing.

“Those are for hen dos!” Ron shouts at Seamus, who is clutching a pack of novelty willy straws. “Do you really want to be sucking on one of those?

“I do,” Harry says, grinning, “Sorry I’m late.” 

Ron goes a bit green, but the rest of the boys cheer and slap him on the back. Ron had taken the news of Harry’s coming out better than expected, but he still wasn’t happy that it was Draco Malfoy he was choosing to spend time with.

Seamus hands him a willy straw and puts his arm around Dean, who’s wearing a bizarre hat with real antlers. A waitress with pointed ears brings them a round of drinks. 

Two hours later, they’re still going strong. Half of those drinks didn’t even have alcohol in them, they just had strange effects like making smoke come out of his nose and a funny, pleasant tingling sensation all over his backside. They’re all huddled on the sofa, tired from dancing but nowhere near ready to call it a night, and trying to figure out the mystery of who has been sending Ron mail. The sender always signs his letters “Worge Beezly”, and for the life of them they can’t crack the code.

“It’s always the same thing! A picture of that Muggle!” Ron complains. Deans asks for a look, and Ron pulls out a small and unmoving photograph from his back pocket.

“I know who he is,” Harry says. “Mick something?”

“Nicolas Cage,” a familiar voice announces from over Harry’s shoulder. Draco slides in next to him and Harry lights up, kissing him soundly and feeling ten shades brighter. “Why do you have a photo of him?”

Ron explains, and Draco nods understandingly.

“A true mystery for the ages,” he says. “So, Thomas, how are you feeling?”

“A toast,” Dean mumbles into Seamus’s shoulder. “To my last night of freedom…”

Draco gives Harry a freaked out look and whispers in his ear.

“I’ll never understand these heterosexuals. Isn’t a wedding supposed to be the happiest day of your life?” 

Then Neville appears with another round of royal blue, gelatinous drinks. He passes a different drink to Harry: a fizzing, butter-yellow concoction with red balls floating on the top, and says it’s from a man at the bar. Draco grabs it.

“Oi, that’s mine!”

“Who gave you this? Bring him here,” Draco orders. Neville rolls his eyes but obediently heads back to the bar. He comes back four minutes later, but says the man has already gone. Didn’t catch his name.

“Harry, this is jequirity. It’s poisonous.” Harry opens his mouth to argue back but Draco talks over him. “A stranger buys you a drink and you accept it without thinking? You don’t think that’s suspicious? Or dangerous?” 

“What would I do without you?” Harry says apologetically.

Draco looks a little mollified, but still shaken. 

“It’s lucky I carry a bezoar with me at all times,” he replies.

“That’s—“ Ron looks like he was about to say _paranoid_ , but changes tack. “—sensible. I think we should call it a night. I’ll see you lads at the wedding tomorrow. Remind me, Dean, O Future Brother-in-law of mine, where are you having the reception?”

*

“We’re so lost,” Harry says for the fourteenth time.

“We’re not,” Draco says for the fifteenth. “I’m sure it’s right through here. Send a Patronus to Hermione if you’re that worried, she can direct us.”

“How can she direct us if _we_ don’t know where we are?”

“Oh, my darling, gorgeous, dim-witted partner. You really think she hasn’t got a tracker on you?”

Fifteen minutes later, they arrive at the wedding marquee in the middle of the forest that Ginny chose for the wedding reception. They had to stop halfway and admire a couple of majestic Abraxans living in the neighbouring field. 

They meet Ron at the entrance to the tent, wearing olive green robes and gold paint sprayed into his hair. Everyone is dressed in green, bride’s orders. Behind him, Harry can see Fred and George doing something to the seventh tier of the cake. He reminds himself not to eat any food that’s handed to him without Draco checking it over first.

“Where’s your date?” Draco asks Ron. “Parked outside?”

“Har-har. Yes, I’m in love with my car,” Ron says sarcastically.

“We know. It’s the sexual element that worries us.”

“Hermione!”

She grins, eyes twinkling. Her robes are green too: deep viridian. Monarch butterflies decorate her hair. 

Neville arrives holding a tray of drinks, wearing shades of asparagus. He almost offers one to Harry but thinks better of it.

“I’m off alcohol at the moment,” Harry admits. “It was getting a bit much.”

“Have they caught him yet? The guy who tried to poison you?”

“We found him,” Hermione says darkly. “Tracked him down to Leighton Buzzard. He was convinced his wife was madly in love with Harry, and that the only way she would love her husband more was if he… got Harry out of the picture. That’s his story, anyway. He’s in a holding cell.”

“Like I said,” Draco whispers in Harry’s ear, with a warm arm around his waist, “these heterosexuals scare me.”

“Tell us about your new job, Harry,” Neville says.

Harry tells them, excitedly, about how McGonagall is letting him take over the position of Flying Instructor from Hooch. They all raise a toast to him, and decline slices of cake offered by Fred and George. Gradually they all pair off to dance. Draco reaches out a hand and pulls him on to the floor.

Even in the midst of all this spinning and whirling, the shrieking and laughing, and the awful racket of something Ron has informed him is called “Chumbawamba”, Harry feels totally at peace. He couldn’t have imagined it a few months ago; so much as changed. He’s grateful that he finally made it up with Ginny, even though she was so angry with him. 

Draco kisses him, slow and dirty and perfect.

*

When they can’t dance anymore, they head deep into the forest, looking for a secluded place. Instead they find Ginny sitting on a log in her wedding dress and no shoes. Luna is stroking her hair. 

“Barbados!” Ginny repeats, seemingly on an endless loop. “Barbados! He’s gone to Barbados!”

“Who’s gone to Barbados?” Harry asks. “Are you alright?”

“Dean! Barbados! With Seamus! Barbados!”

“Why Barbados?” Draco asks, sitting down on the log but giving Luna’s dress a wide berth. On closer inspection it seems to be made only of live ladybirds, scuttling and writhing. 

“My honeymoon,” Ginny says in a dazed tone, too shocked to be angry. “They’ve gone on the honeymoon I booked. What’s more is, I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“Don’t worry, you can come and live with me,” says Luna brightly. A few ladybirds fly up and land on Ginny’s freckled arms. 

“I’ll take you up on that, Luna. And you know what? I’m keeping the wedding presents.” 

Ginny looks around at them, blinking like she’s just woken up. She takes it all in: her muddy wedding dress, the sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees, the raucous revelry carrying on in the marquee that can be heard even from this distance. She takes Luna’s hand and holds it. Ginny looks at Harry and Draco.

“At least it worked out for you two, eh?”

Yes. It did.

[fin.]

[ **_He couldn’t have wished for anything better. If he had made different choices, it could have all gone wrong…_ ** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946543/chapters/60381352)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! And congrats - you got the best ending! At least, it was meant to be, but I'm fond of the others too. Comments are welcome, I’m sure there’s a few mistakes in here…


	16. Routes

Here is a diagram of all the routes (with endings circled). I hope that's right. I really, really hope that's right.


End file.
